


Moving Furniture

by LittleLynn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, and is fascinated when crowley doesn't seem to mind, and starts messing with the decor, aziraphale gets a clue, aziraphale moves in, how do you do a get together fic when they're basically already married?, obligatory post-canon fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 11:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19272712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLynn/pseuds/LittleLynn
Summary: It was strange, Aziraphale’s bookshop had not burned down - though that was not what was strange, given all that had happened in the past week his bookshop miraculously un-incinerating itself barely even registered. No, what was strange, was that Aziraphale’s bookshop was still standing and yet somehow he found himself staying at Crowley’s place anyway.





	Moving Furniture

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, it was entirely inevitable that I would end up here. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3

It was strange, Aziraphale’s bookshop had not burned down - though that was not what was strange, given all that had happened in the past week his bookshop miraculously un-incinerating itself barely even registered. No, what was strange, was that Aziraphale’s bookshop was still standing and yet somehow he found himself staying at Crowley’s place anyway.

They didn’t talk about it. They might be from the heavens, but sometimes they were terribly English - too long on earth no doubt - so they didn’t talk about it.

Aziraphale didn’t particularly  _ like _ Crowley’s abode. It was very sleek and trendy - apart from the parts that were hellish and comprised of stolen artifacts (Aziraphale would complain except he rather liked having access to said artifacts) - and just a touch impersonal. It was difficult to get much of a sense of Crowley himself from the place, which was ever such a shame, because Aziraphale was ever so fond of Crowley. He did like the plants, until he heard Crowley actually speak to them - if fiery threats to their photosynthesising lives could be considered speaking - which led them to their first bout of bickering as roommates. 

Crowley has since stopped decimating his plants, when Aziraphale can hear at least. 

So, aside from the plants, Aziraphale did not particularly like Crowley’s flat. Thus it followed that he had expected a fight, a look, at least a teeny weeny hiss, when Aziraphale brought one of his musty old bookshelves into the place. Entirely out of place, like they both were in each other’s lives, and clashing with everything around it, but brimming with all of Aziraphale’s favourite titles, the ones he went back to again and again. Well worth a little spat to have here with him. 

Aziraphale was ready for when Crowley came back from whatever mischief he was making out in the world - because he never honestly managed much more than mischief, even when they had had sides other than their own - he was armed with no less than seventeen arguments about why the bookshelf should be allowed to stay, and had even readied a quick counter-miracle if Crowley just tried to vanish it right out of the flat. 

But when Crowley came home and saw the old old old, so very old it almost looked as though it should be older than they were, even though that would be quite impossible, all he did was run his fingers over the spines, picking up Aziraphale’s worn copy of the Divine Comedy, and chuckle to himself over some passage or other. 

“Good selection. Could do with a copy of Alice in Wonderland though, always did love that one.” Crowley commented, plucking a tattered hardback of Dorian Gray out from the rickety case and settling down with it over on his sleek black sofa (a sofa which most assuredly prioritised aesthetic over comfort mind you), while Aziraphale remained flabbergasted and rooted to the spot, doing an impressive impression of a particularly stunned fish.

 

After that, Aziraphale became  _ curious _ . Well, he’d always been curious, had often been told by the other angels that it was his biggest flaw, that and his soft heartedness. But he became curious about a few things in particular:

  1. Did Crowley actually like his flat?
  2. If he would let Aziraphale bring in the bookcase, what else could he get away with?
  3. And perhaps most troublingly; if Crowley liked Alice in Wonderland, why didn’t he simply have a copy?



It did occur to Aziraphale that he could just miracle up a copy of the book for Crowley, though it somehow did not occur to him that so could Crowley - the brain truly is a strange place - but they were supposed to be laying low and only miracling when absolutely necessary, such as when they had run out of wine the other night and absolutely needed more immediately. 

Regardless, Aziraphale found himself revisiting his shop and digging through the piles all day until he found his copy of the book that he knew was buried in there somewhere. He found it eventually, after such a violent sneeze triggered by a tower of falling Dickens (dreadfully dull - the books not the man, Charlie had actually been a very jovial fellow) had spun him around with its force and right into a Les Mis, which was crushing poor Alice under it’s sheer bulk. 

With an excited smile Aziraphale retrieved Alice from her captor, blew the dust off, sneezed again, and tucked her under his arm. 

“I have a present for you.” Aziraphale couldn’t keep the smile off his face when he returned to the flat, catching Crowley looking only mildly murderously towards his greenery as he brandished his green mister. 

“You restocked my holy water?” Crowley asked, cheekily spritzing the air for effect.

“What? No!” Aziraphale huffed, his brow furrowing and Crowley’s lips quirking up at the sight. 

“Shame. What then? Anything good, you seem pretty pleased with yourself at least.”

“Here.” Aziraphale replied, holding out the book. He had a split second to wonder whether he should have wrapped it, or if that would have been too much, either way it was too late now. 

Crowley took the book and a softly surprised expression came over his thin features, the kind of expression someone got when they hadn’t realised anyone had been listening. Aziraphale always listened to Crowley, even when he was talking utter codswallop.  

“Good book.” Crowley said, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what to say, a rarity. Aziraphale got the strangest feeling then, as if the moment was somehow larger than it really was.  

“Why didn’t you already have a copy here, if you like it so much?”

“Never really occurred to me, wouldn’t have been so hard to get a copy when I wanted to read it again.”

“But this is your home, don’t you want to fill it with things that you like, things that you love?” Aziraphale asked, mildly exasperated. 

“I have.” Crowley answered, slitted yellow eyes looking at him, Aziraphale huffed.

“You have not. This place is entirely impersonal. Not even a record player and I know how much you enjoyed the music back then, not to mention your pretentious beliefs about vinyl.” Aziraphale ranted, but it was only a small rant.

Crowley gave him a funny look, as if he was the one not making sense, or had said something strange.

“I guess I just never really thought about it. Never really saw this place as a home as much as a useful shelter and nicer than hell.”

“Well I require a home, and you deserve more than a roof.” Aziraphale said, feeling rather like he was putting a metaphorical foot down, which made him nod to himself a little. When he looked up Crowley was looking at him again with a complicated expression on his face.

“Are you okay Crowley?”

“Absolutely tickety-boo angel.” Crowley said, shaking himself out of his own expression, “I’m going to go give this a read, see if it ends the same as last time. Thanks.” Crowley answered, it seemed slightly forced though Aziraphale could not fathom why. He was reminded of the fact that the last time he had told Crowley that everything was ‘tickety-boo’, it had in fact, not been tickety at all. 

Before Aziraphale could sort his way through the complicated politics of facial expressions and vocal tones, Crowley had closed his door. 

 

Aziraphale purchased Crowley a record deck and vinyls of various old rockers that the nice young woman in the music shop promised him ‘went hard’, which he had interpreted to mean, played well and Crowley might be a fan of. 

It clashed awfully with the living area. Crowley looked at him a little helplessly, but he didn’t remove the player, so Aziraphale decided he liked it regardless of his facial expressions. 

 

With the copy of Alice having taken up residence in the old bookshelf, and the mystery of why Crowley hadn’t already had a copy solved - even if his answer was most unsatisfactory - Aziraphale moved on to another item on his list of curiosities; what would Crowley let him get away with bringing into the house?

This was both an experiment, and a genuine desire to fill the flat with the oddities, knick-knacks and rubbish that made houses homes. 

He started small. Which probably was not all that necessary given the large misshapen bookcase sitting smack bang in the middle of Crowley’s otherwise fashionable living room. But regardless, he started small. 

The first thing was a rug. Aziraphale had had it since the fourteenth century and he had yet to find a rug he liked better. More to the point, he was certain that Crowley would hate it, and therefore his tolerating of it would be quite interesting. 

And tolerate it he did. 

And it was interesting, but Aziraphale just couldn’t work out  _ why _ he was tolerating it. 

He hadn't even griped about it, just rolled his eyes almost fondly and walked over it to his usual perch on the chair. 

So the experiment continued. 

Next up Aziraphale felt it prudent to contribute to Crowley’s collection of plants, something to add to the life of the flat and put some pops of colour among all that verdant green. And perhaps to spy for Aziraphale a little too, to make sure Crowley was being polite to his plants now. 

So Aziraphale went and got some flowers. He had never really been able to retain the names of all of the different flowers of the world, so he settled for the ones that he saw in the best shades of blue and white, with large vibrant petals that were soft to the touch, and a sweet smelling scent that lightly dusted the air. 

He’s never asked Crowley his opinions on colour,  _ what’s your favourite colour _ felt both and entirely trite and dreadfully mundane a question, so he had never asked it. But throughout their entire acquaintance Crowley had kept himself almost entirely in blacks and reds, so Aziraphale could only assume that those were the only colours he truly cared for. The plants, he knew, were more a point of horticultural pride and bragging rights, than they were a desire to bring colour into his flat. 

But colour was really quite lovely, and Aziraphale had always liked the way blue and white looked among green, so he went to a local garden centre and bought what he was assured by the adolescent assistant there didn’t need too much sun to live inside. Aziraphale also asked him if the flowers were particularly emotionally robust given how Crowley spoke to his plants, but that had just confused the poor lad. 

When he got back to the flat, Aziraphale tucked them in neatly around the other plants, stepping back to get a more well-rounded view of the lot of them, nodding to himself, satisfied with what he saw. 

When Crowley was back from whatever it was he was doing - probably tempting (does that mean Aziraphale should have been twarting? Was anyone even keeping score anymore) - Aziraphale hopped into one of the sofas - tragically built for style rather than comfort - and pretended to be reading the paper. 

There was a pause in Crowley’s loping swagger as he got to the plants. 

“Always did like blue. But don’t think this is going to make me be nice to them Angel.” Crowley announced, dropping himself down on the sofa and kicking his feet up into Aziraphale’s lap. It made Aziraphale smile to himself and drop a hand onto Crowley’s bony ankle, giving it a squeeze. 

He caught Crowley during his usual berating of the plants the next day, and followed him around giving the quivering plants a rousing pep talk, and pretending for the both of them that he couldn’t see the smile tugging at the corners of Crowley’s mouth. It made something warm settle in his tummy. 

 

Next up, was the decor. Not that there was anything wrong with what Crowley had, but there were a few favourites of Aziraphale’s that he wanted to move in. He was living here after all, and his prior research suggested that Crowley really wasn’t going to mind. 

So on one of Crowley’s outings - which he nearly always invited Aziraphale on, this time he had made an excuse of his corporeal form being tired, he got the feeling Crowley knew exactly what he was doing, but the demon didn’t comment - Aziraphale miracled his favorite paintings over from the bookshop and distributed them about the place. Just little accessories to Crowley’s own collection. 

When Crowley came home, Aziraphale was trying out something Crowley had recommended to him many times over the centuries, known as a ‘nap’, he was rather enjoying it, even though it seemed rather indulgent. 

“Angel,” Crowley started, walking into the living room. “Not that I’m complaining; but why is Van Gogh’s Poppy Flowers hanging in the hallway. You know, the famously stolen one.” the demon was smirking at him, Azirpahle felt his face heat and skin flush read and wondered why exactly his corporeal form felt the need to do that. 

“Well,” Aziraphale huffed, indignant, much to Crowley’s apparent amusement. “The men who stole it had a sudden change of heart and gave it to me instead.”

“And instead of return it you decided to keep it?” Crowley raised a smirking eyebrow. Azirpahale was aware that eyebrows could not smirk, yet somehow Crowley’s managed it. Never malicious though, always just a touch too fond. 

“It’s a very nice painting! And don’t act like you don’t have half of Leonardo’s original works hanging on your walls. Just because the various galleries of the world don’t know they have fakes doesn’t make it okay.”

“That’s different, I’m a demon, I’m allowed to pilfer however much art I want. You on the other hand, are supposed to be above all that.” Crowley teased, and it was very much a tease, no hint of accusation anywhere in his tone, just fondness, perhaps something more than fondness. “Besides, Leo was a friend, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind my having them.” Crowley shrugged. 

Aziraphale felt something shift in his mood at the mention of Crowley’s old  _ friend _ , he soured a little, though he couldn’t really say why. Leonardo had been perfectly polite to him the few times he had met the man - when he could tear his eyes from Crowley that was. His feelings towards Leonardo had always boarded on the unpleasant, which was unangelic and unfair and honestly confusing. So unless Aziraphale had wanted to contact Crowley for some reason, he had generally given the man a wide berth.

“Right. Well. I’m sure that’s true.” Aziraphale said tightly. “I think I might get some air.” He announced, entirely unfairly and not inviting Crowley along, he pretended not to see Crowley’s confused, hurt expression and bustled out the flat. 

Aziraphale was able to shake off his strange mood fairly quickly, nothing a short jaunt around the parks of London and feeding some ducks couldn’t fix. Especially when he ran out of lettuce (word had it you weren’t supposed to feed ducks bread anymore, so he and Crowley had since switched to more digestible alternatives) and Crowley showed up brandishing another bag. 

Aziraphale beamed at him, and thought  _ well, Leonardo isn’t here anymore, is he? _ And couldn’t quite work out why that mattered so very much. 

He was shocked the next day, to find Crowley had made his own changes to the decor. The centerpiece of the living room wall was no longer one of Leo’s - relegated to a far less eye-catching part of the wall - but instead a photo of the pair of them. 

A ‘selfie’ Crowley had called it, Aziraphale beaming at the camera as instructed and Crowley smiling at him instead. Aziraphale had complained to him about that, he’d given Aziraphale very clear instructions to look into the camera, and then disregarded his own rule. Crowley had just given him one of those odd looks of his, like Azirpahle was simultaneously the thickest and sweetest individual on the planet. 

There were others scattered around the place. Impressive really, they hardly took many photos, but there they were in St James’ Park, clinking glasses at the Ritz, driving in the Bentley, eating ice cream at the beach. In his quest to find them all, Azirpahle found one in Crowley’s bedroom, of Aziraphale at his shop, head buried in a book. He didn’t even know Crowley had ever taken a picture like that. 

Crowley set the frame back on the bedside table and wondered why he was smiling so fully, and why finding that photo in particular had made him feel so warm. 

 

Now the piano was not small, and it was most definitely encroaching on Crowley’s space. Getting a decent sized flat in London was frankly more than a miracle and Aziraphale was now hogging that space with a large grand piano. 

But he did so love to play, and if he remembered correctly, Crowley rather liked it too. His little point about all the great composers had been true, the pair of them had often seen the likes of Mozart and Beethoven and the rest in concert together. 

Still, regardless of Crowley’s feelings towards long dead composers; a grand piano in a London flat was frankly ridiculous, and Aziraphale knew it. 

Waiting for Crowley to get home, Aziraphale miracled up some music sheets of their favourites and started playing as best he could. Crowley really was much better than him at playing than he was, had loved it as well, and he hadn’t heard Crowley do so for a shamefully long time, grand pianos having long since gone out of fashion. 

Enrapt in trying to tinker out his favourite piece - he was butchering it, but he was also determined - he didn’t hear his friend come in, and startled a little when Crowley sat down beside him, placing his long fingers on the keys and starting up a seamless accompaniment to the piece, easily taking over when Aziraphale’s playing drifted off. 

Azirpahle closed his eyes, let the music wash over him, he had forgotten how much better this piece sounded when Crowley was playing it, though why that was he had never been able to say. 

Crowley played the piece in full, despite its length, ending it softly. Aziraphale let his eyes drift open to find Crowley watching him openly, sunglasses gone and Aziraphale glad for it. He hadn’t released until that moment just how closely they were sitting, Crowley’s breath soft on his cheek, almost as soft as his eyes. The look felt like a caress and Aziraphale shivered at it’s touch. 

Aziraphale felt as if they were locked inside that moment somehow. Felt as if something was about to happen, teetering on the edge. But after far too long and not nearly long enough, before they could teeter off the edge together, Crowley turned his head away with a forced chuckle and a hand sweeping through his hair.  

“Thanks for the piano, I’ve missed playing.” Crowley said, sheepish - which was entirely unlike him - before wandering off to somewhere else in the house. It left Aziraphale feeling like he had missed something he shouldn’t have, he wanted to know what would have happened if Crowley hadn’t turned away. 

As a final touch to the piano, Aziraphale found a picture of pair of them on Crowley’s phone. One the demon must have taken while they were drunk, they were laughing and smiling. Aziraphale was sure he had seen a smiliar picture of Anathema and Newt the last time he had visited them. He liked the picture, had it printed, carefully selected a frame for it and set it on the piano. 

Crowley didn’t mention it verbally. But he looked at Aziraphale when he saw it with such a profound kind of longing that Aziraphale felt it physically. Aziraphale didn’t understand it, Crowley didn’t need to long for him, he was right in front of him. 

 

The flat was, by this point, teeming with Aziraphale’s additions and alterations. But one night when the pair of them were rather pleasantly roaringly drunk and flopped on the sofa, Aziraphale decided that the sofa simply had to go. Style over comfort was simply not good enough when trying to get drunk comfy with your clingy best friend.

“I'm sorry my dear but this is entirely unacceptable.” Aziraphale announced, maybe if he had had more of his faculties about him, he would have noticed the way Crowley reeled back from where he was coiled around Aziraphale, as if splashed with holy water, looking as though his worst fears had come true, his heart had been broken and all hope had been snatched away from him all at once. But Aziraphale’s faculties were not about him, and he ploughed on without noticing. “This sofa is just awful stylish yuppie nonsense.”

And with that, Aziraphale whirled his fingers and changed the sofa beneath them into something infinitely more frumpy and - more importantly - more comfortable. 

“Now, thats better isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, satisfied with himself and settling down into the cushiony softness, holding out his arms for Crowley to come back to him. He huffed when Crowley paused. “Don’t be shy now dear, I know you like to cuddle.”

Aziraphale also liked to cuddle, so really there was no reason not to. Heaven and hell couldn’t see them and honestly that had not stopped them even when their respective head offices might have cared.  

Aziraphale smiled contentedly when Crowley wrapped himself around him, tucking his head under Aziraphale’s chin and pressing his matching smile into Aziraphale’s neck. 

 

In the bookshop - or wherever Aziraphale was calling home - he had always kept a kitchen. He didn’t need to eat, but he liked to, and although the food that he bought at cafes and restaurants and hot dog stands and ice cream vans would never cease to delight him, he also liked to try his hand at cooking every once in a while. So he always kept a kitchen. 

Crowley’s flat did not have a kitchen not even for appearances sake. In an abstract way Aziraphale knew this, by now he had nosed his way past every door - not that Crowley seemed to mind - and not a single one of them had held a kitchen. However due to the fact angels didn’t need a kitchen for daily use, this didn’t really sink in until he returned home one day with a couple of bags from Waitrose. 

Aziraphale also realised that grand piano or not, installing an entire kitchen into Crowley’s flat - even a modest one - was likely a step too far. That would be more of a renovation than redecoration. 

It was no matter really, he could always pop back to his little kitchen if he really felt the urge. 

Aziraphale forgot about the shopping bags he’d distractedly left in the living room, and failed to notice Crowley eyeing them thoughtfully a few hours later. 

When the angel came back from an outing to see the new musical on at the Old Vic the next day - Crowley had told him he had things to do, and not accompanied him, even though Aziraphale was not sure what things either of them had to do anymore, he was fairly sure they’d bee fired from their old jobs - he did notice the new layout to the flat, and the new archway in what had been half of the living room now leading to a small kitchenette. Crowley had even found a way to accommodate the piano in the newly reduced space. 

Things to do indeed.

“It’s uh, all modern appliances,” Crowley said, as if that was what mattered.

_ Oh dear _ Aziraphale thought, and at the same time also thought;  _ oh, my dear Crowley _ . 

_ I really do love him terribly _ was the next thought to float serenely through Aziraphale’s head. It was not a new thought at all, Aziraphale knew that he loved Crowley, that had been a foregone conclusion for quite some time now. But it had been a while since he had really thought about it in detail. And suddenly the old thought felt rather new. 

When the thought had first come to him - serenely then too, but immediately followed by a certain amount of blind panic - he had locked down on the feelings as quickly and as best he could. Loving a demon was entirely unacceptable in the eyes of heaven - not that anything the pair of them had been doing would have been acceptable in their eyes, but loving Crowley, really  _ loving _ him, and not in an ‘all of gods creatures’ kind of way truly felt like a step too far - so he had pretended not to. Tucked those thoughts away, compartmentalised. 

That had been made harder when Crowley had not only saved him from the Nazi’s but then saved his books as well and Aziraphale had realised he didn’t just love Crowley, he was  _ in love _ with Crowley. But there was a part of him that worried Crowley didn’t feel the same, even as another part touted that that was clearly ludicrous, given the demon had walked over consecrated ground for him. Besides, no need to rush right? They had eternity. 

Then the apocalypse had seemed a lot like it was going to happen, only to then not, throwing everything through a loop once more, and eventually leading Aziraphale up to this thought: at this point, he was certain that no one would even  _ care  _ if he was in love with Crowley. In fact they had probably already figured it out. 

“I love you.” Aziraphale said, it spilled out of his mouth like a drunken woman in high heels attempting to climb out of a taxi. 

Crowley looked up and blinked at him. 

“I love you too Angel.”

He knew Crowley loved him back. He wasn’t  _ dim _ , despite what the other angels might say. But it did suddenly occur to Aziraphale, that he wasn’t sure he had ever made it explicitly clear to Crowley how he felt, what exactly he meant by I love you. And if anything, Crowley’s resigned though honest echo of the phrase made Aziraphale really doubt that Crowley had any idea what he was talking about. 

“No my dear, I’m  _ in _ love with you.” Aziraphale corrected himself, and then he watched Crowley’s face travel through a complicated sequence of emotions that was difficult to follow but most definitely landed firmly on hope.

“You- really?”

“Mmm. For quite some time now.”

“But I’m a demon?” Crowley said, as if he was unsure, it almost made Aziraphale chuckle. 

“And I am an angel.”

“And you love me?”

“And I love you.”

“Oh.”

“Did you really not know?” Aziraphale asked, slightly concerned all of a sudden, for how he had unwittingly treated his friend, reaching out and cupping the side of his sharp jaw.

“I mean yeah, satan knows I’ve been gone on you since you handed those humans your flaming sword but I wasn’t quite sure in what capacity you loved me back. Angels are supposed to love right? So I guess I’m still not entirely sure about what exactly it is that you mean. Do you mean in an eternal soulmate sort of way or a romantic way? Or both? I think I finally understand how some kids feel on christmas morning - the new commercialised christmas, sorry about that - so asking for both seems a bit greedy but I suppose I am a demon and both would honestly be what I’ve wanted for about a thousand years at least. And if it is romantic is it also physical? As much as we are physical I mean. And if it is is that in a handholding sort of way or  _ not _ , I know I used to be an angel but I don’t really remember what it is like and honestly Aziraphale if you could just stop me whenever you feel like it that would be great.” Crowley ground to a halt, snapping his mouth shut, his entire face flushing red with embarrassment over the word-vomit that had just poured out from him, the smooth talking Serpent of Eden.

If possible Aziraphale loved him even more.

“My dear, I love you in an eternal soulmate sort of way,” Aziraphale said, running his thumb over Crowley’s cheek and leaning in to kiss his blush there. “I love you in a romantic way. A physical way. I want to hold your hand, and I want you to hold me at night.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s disbelieving lips then, in a way he had secretly wanted to do for a very long time, let it linger because he had no desire to pull away. “I want you to touch me, like I have been imagining you doing so for a damnable long time now.” Aziraphale finished with his own blush, but it was worth it, for the fire it woke up in Crowley’s yellow eyes.

“You always have been incredibly indulgent for an angel,” he teased, reminding the angel of all of the times Crowley had fed him cake, champagne, oysters, anything he thought Aziraphale might like. 

“Then I ask you to indulge me again,” Aziraphale responded, he would have been embarrassed by the comment, but Crowley was on him before he had a chance, claiming him in a way that was so very tempting, so very intoxicating.

True to Aziraphale’s request, Crowley indulged him, even in his kisses. They were deep, passionate, lingering and sure, as if the demon knew precisely what Aziraphale wanted, what he needed. And when he circled Aziraphale with his arms and pulled him flush, Aziraphale thought Crowley probably did know exactly what he wanted, even before the angel had completely decided himself.

“Tell me to stop,” Crowley growled as his hands snaked beneath Aziraphale’s waistcoat and shirt, digging into the meat of his sides. 

“Don’t even think of it,” Aziraphale replied, he felt Crowley’s smile pressed against his neck, then he felt his teeth and gasped, fisting his hands in the demon’s shirt, probably stretching it out of shape.

Their lips found each other again, sliding together, and Aziraphale moaned as Crowley slipped his tongue into his mouth, flooding his senses entirely. He had imagined what Crowley’s kisses would taste like many times, even if he had never admitted it to himself. It was better than any imaginings. 

Crowley’s deft fingers found their way to Aziraphale’s buttons and started tugging them free as he nudged Aziraaphale in the direction of the bedroom. 

They could have miracled away their clothes, snapped themselves immediately down the hall and into the seldom used bedroom, but this was better, Aziraphale thought; stumbling along the hall together, losing clothing along the way, a shirt here, a sock there. Aziraphale had never felt more real in his long life, had never felt more alive, than when Crowley’s warm hands were digging into his sides, cursing as he stubbed his toe on the doorframe.

Crowley’s bed was decadent, despite its limited use, and Aziraphale spared a thought for just how comfortable it was as he dropped backwards onto it, the last of his and Crowley’s clothes decorating the hallway, the demon staring down at him more longingly than a man trapped in a desert gazing at a pool of water. 

The demon was beautiful, he had become, over the years, Aziraphale’s definition of the word, and seeing him like this, naked and panting and  _ wanting _ , only made the feeling inside of Aziraphale’s chest grow even more. He wanted to touch, to kiss, every part of the demon. Aziraphale’s own hard cock throbbed as he imagined stroking Crowley’s own, imagined how it would feel in his hand, in his mouth, inside him.  

Crowley’s gaze was almost enough to make him bashful, conscious of his softness, but the demon was on him before he could. He had always had impeccable timing. 

Crowley kissed him thoroughly, Aziraphale breaking it with a sharp gasp when their cocks brushed together, an entirely new sensation to him that had the angel wrapping his arms around the demon, dragging his nails down Crowley’s back, making the demon shiver. 

“What do you want angel?” Crowley asked,  _ purred _ . “Anything, it’s yours.” Aziraphale whined, high pitched and needy as thin lips and sharp teeth sucked at his collar bone, his pulse point, his jaw. “Do you know what you want?”

“ _ Yes _ .” Aziraphale panted, Crowley pulled back eyed him with a teasing smile. 

“Angel, have you thought about this?” Crowley asked, Aziraphale bit his lip, nodded. 

“Perhaps, ah, I’ve done more than just  _ thought _ about it.” Aziraphale admitted, Crowley groaned and buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, rolling his hips against Aziraphale’s, the angel gasping, gripping the demon harder, begging with his body in a way that he didn’t know he knew. 

“Please,  _ please _ tell me.”

“I would touch myself and think of you.”

“Touch yourself how? Would you stroke your cock?” Crowley asked, wrapping his hand around Aziraphale’s throbbing cock and running his hand up and down, too loose to do anything but tease, dragging moans from Aziraphale easily.

“Y-yes.” Aziraphale stuttered. “But I would also run my fingers inside myself and think of you.” Aziraphale whimpered, Crowley’s breath caught, his rhythm faltering.

Perhaps he should have been ashamed to admit to such lustful thoughts and actions from back when he was supposed to have been angelic and free of sin, but they seemed to have both left shame behind with the apocalypse, and something other than shame made Aziraphale blush as he spoke. 

“Oh  _ Angel _ .” Crowley growled, a swish of hand and slicked fingers were pressing at Aziraphale’s tight hole. “You thought about this?” He asked, Aziraphale could only whimper and nod frantically in answer. 

Crowley ducked down, claiming Aziraphale’s lips again, as if they weren’t already his, and sucked on Aziraphale’s bottom lip as he pressed the first of his fingers inside. Aziraphale whined, turned his head into a pillow when Crowley pulled back, screwing his eyes shut, knowing that Crowley was  _ watching _ . 

“Okay?” Crowley asked, Aziraphale spread his legs further, pushed his hips down in a frantic search for more as Crowley’s low chuckle crawled up his spine like molten heat. 

They had often joked that Aziraphale was more of a hedonist than Crowley, and Aziraphale would bluster and protest, but they both knew it was true, and it continued to be here, with Aziraphale moaning into the soft pillows in a tenor that could only be described as  _ wanton _ as Crowley pressed in two, then three slicked fingers. 

Aziraphale’s back arched when Crowley’s clever fingers brushed over his sweet spot, his hands grabbing for the demon, anchoring him to the world as he felt like he might lift off. 

“I have you,” Crowley murmured, pulling his fingers free and holding Aziraphale close. 

Aziraphale whined as Crowley’s sweet fingers left him, then gasped when the blunt, slick head of his cock pressed against his stretched hole. 

“You’ve never…?” Crowley asked, Aziraphale shook his head, he’d never had any inclination, for anyone other than Crowley, who kissed him softly. “We’ll go slow.” 

And he did, kissing Aziraphale as pressed inside so slowly that it was it’s own kind of torment, dangling Aziraphale right on the edge of what he wanted as his cock steadily filled him. It felt like an eternity before Crowley’s hips were flush with his rear, panting into each other’s mouths, waiting for Aziraphale grow used to the feeling, one he knew he would want again and again. 

The angel wrapped his legs around Crowley’s waist and squeezed, not trusting his voice to work but needing Crowley to move more than he had ever needed anything before. And Crowley did, because he had never denied Aziraphale anything. 

Crowley settled his arms either side of Aziraphale’s head and rolled his hips, encouraged by Aziraphale’s increasing moans, getting faster and harder each time Aziraphale’s endless maoning begged for it, until the angel had to brace one hand on the headboard to stop himself from hitting his head with the force of Crowley’s thrusts. And he loved it, wanted more still, wanted it faster, and somehow Crowley knew, like he always did, wrapping one hand around the back of Aziraphale’s knee, stretching him open further and fucking him deeper than before. A smug smile around his panting mouth as Aziraphale threw his head back, shouting out incoherently as Crowley’s cock hit his prostate. 

It was frantic after that. Millennia of wanting culminating in a maelstrom of love and passion, of Crowley’s hand wrapped around Aziraphale’s knee and Aziraphale’s nails scratching down Crowley’s back. 

“I’m - “ Aziraphale managed to gasp, Crowley’s eyes boring into his own before he came down to steal what sloppy kisses they could manage, made messy and perfect by the force with which he was fucking into Aziraphale, how heavily they were panting. 

When the hand that wasn’t holding Aziraphale’s leg found its way into the angel’s blonde curls and  _ pulled _ , Aziraphale was lost. 

He came hard, release painting his stomach, gasping through his chest and leaving him clenching and pulsing around Crowley’s cock in pleasure, the demon looking, sounding wrecked as he thrust once, twice more before filling Aziraphale with his own climax. 

They collapsed together, panting heavily for air they didn’t even technically need, sweaty and wrapped together in a way that had perhaps been entirely inevitable right from the start. 

Aziraphale never wanted to move, wasn’t sure if his limbs would ever function properly again, and had no desire to find out until the morning at the earliest. Crowley must have had the same idea, as a small, lazy miracle cleaned up their mess and tucked them under the covers, without so much as needing to let go of one another. 

Crowley kissed him again and again, before settling to face him. Aziraphale knew his smile was wide and soft, but so was Crowley’s.

Aziraphale gazed at Crowley, both of them drooping with sleep but unwilling to shut their eyes, and wondered how his feelings for Crowley could be simultaneously so very simple, and so very ineffable. That was the nature of love, he supposed.

 

Unlike the rest of the flat, Aziraphale didn’t feel the need to redecorate the bedroom at all, but he did claim a side of the bed for his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the doubtless countless typos, but it's 1:30 in the am so I'll fix it when I get a mo, thank you for tolerating, thank you for kudos, eternal salvation for comments <3
> 
> Feel free to prompt me, love a good fic idea!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Moving Furniture [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19769218) by [originblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/originblue/pseuds/originblue)




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